


Too Hot (Hot Damn)

by Kacka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 11:38:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7800397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The air conditioning in Clarke and Bellamy's apartment is broken, but Bellamy has a plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Hot (Hot Damn)

**Author's Note:**

> No plot. Literally nothing happens. 1000% fluff. Enjoy!

“My sweat is sweating,” Bellamy groans. “This is worse than that time Octavia blackmailed me into doing hot yoga with her.”

“The between-the-boob stream has been upgraded to a river,” Clarke says, fanning herself. The air conditioning has been out for three days and somehow the super hasn’t addressed the issue yet. The effort it takes to move only makes her sweat more.

“Hot,” says Bellamy dryly. “I would be totally overcome with lust right now if I hadn’t sweated it all out, along with my energy and probably a bunch of essential nutrients.”

Clarke, lying on the floor under the open window, rolls her head to flash him a lethargic smile. He’s covered the couch with all the spare towels they have, trying to protect the fabric underneath. They’ve only been living together for a few months, and he’s not quite adjusted to the ‘real adult’ furniture they bought to replace the awful futon from his college days. Other than his extreme caution in their living room, she thinks it’s going well. She likes waking up with him every day.

“I love you, but if you bring your body heat anywhere near me right now, or make me move in any way, I will literally become a puddle. Wicked Witch of the West-style.”

“You saying you think my body is hot?”

“Holy shit. You completely ignored my misuse of literality. The heat is changing you. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

“You’re right.” He sighs and, with maximum grunting, pushes himself into a standing position. When he extends a hand to her, she just raises one eyebrow.

“What did I say about making me move?”

“I promise it’ll be worth it, Princess.”

She purses her lips, taking in the way his hair is sticking to his forehead, the way his skin-- and without as shirt, there is a _lot_ of skin on display-- glows, the way his gentle smile warms her from the inside out. Which is not unwelcome, despite the heat.

“Fine,” she sighs, letting him pull her up. “Where are we going?”

He grins and presses a sticky kiss on the tip of her nose.

“You’ll see.”

She almost backs out when he tells her they’ll both have to put on shirts and shoes, but the intrigue of seeing him emerge from their bedroom with a backpack gives her the push she needs. He turns left out of their building and takes her hand in his, pulling her after him down the sidewalk. Between the leisurely pace, the light breeze, and the soft edge the world takes on at dusk, Clarke has to admit this is at least more romantic than slowly liquefying in their apartment.

“Are we breaking into a swimming pool?” She guesses, swinging their linked hands between them. He laughs and shakes his head, little droplets slipping onto the back of his neck.

“Not this time.”

“Buying fifty pounds of ice and filling our bathtub with it?”

“It would melt before we even got it home.”

“Are you taking me refrigerator shopping?”

“No,” he says, exasperation colored with fondness. “Don’t you trust me?”

And she  _does_. It's no small thing, after her mom and Finn and Lexa, after having her trust broken time and time again. She's always trusted Bellamy as naturally as she breathes, even with little things like whatever he's got up his sleeve tonight. She knows he always has her back, and she loves him more than she thought she could love a person, so she decides to go against all of her instincts and attempt to let him surprise her.

“Yeah,” she admits grudgingly. "But the control freak in me needs to know." He squeezes her hand.

“Well, would the control freak in you be satisfied with a popsicle? Because I’m pretty sure the store on the corner sells them.”

“Pretty sure?” She laughs. “Bell, you had one yesterday.”

“Well, we already know the heat is affecting my brain.”

"It's not going to quiet the control freak," she says. "But it's a start."

He buys her grape, her favorite, and she buys him orange, because he’s a heathen and the quarter she found on the sidewalk outside made it so she had exact change. Soon, she’s following him again, crossing her eyes and sticking her tongue out to see if it’s purple. It’s almost like being a kid again, except every time she goes to catch the trickle of juice running down her hand, Bellamy’s eyes go dark as he watches the trace of her tongue across the back of her hand, up the popsicle, along the curve of her upper lip.

“What?” She asks innocently. He rolls his eyes and pulls her in, kissing her hot and wet, his own tongue sliding against her lips and leaving behind the taste of artificial orange. When he lets her go, she’s a little bit dazed.

“You know what.”

By the time they’ve finished their popsicles, the sun has set and street lamps cast little pools of light on the sidewalk. Clarke’s artist eye appreciates the contrast of their golden tint against the deep blue of night, appreciates the fleeting glimmer of fireflies on the familiar streets.

“Are we asking your sister to take us in?” She asks, wrinkling her nose as she thinks of the one-room loft Octavia and her boyfriend share. “She might have A/C but their place is tiny. There’s no way she’ll have room for us.”

“Trust me,” Bellamy says, squeezing her hand again and pressing his sister’s buzzer.

“Yes?”

“Hey, O. Can Clarke and I borrow your bike?” He pauses. “Or Lincoln’s car. I’m not picky which.”

“I am,” she snorts. “There’s no way I’m letting you drive Daisy without my supervision. Hang on and let me ask Lincoln.”

While she’s gone, Clarke bites back her questions. Where are they going that they can’t just take public transportation?

“She named her motorcycle Daisy?” She asks Bellamy instead, and he smirks.

“She says Daisy is a badass and a lady, and anyone who thinks otherwise clearly hasn’t met her.”

“Damn straight,” Octavia says through the speaker. “He says you can have it. I’ll drop him off tomorrow, so you can bring it to him at work. Back up and get ready to catch the keys. I don’t feel like coming down.”

Sure enough, Octavia is leaning out a window on the third story, and soon Bellamy has the keys in his hand.

“Thanks, sis! I owe you one.”

“I’ll add it to your tab,” she calls back, waving at Clarke and sliding the window shut. She has air conditioning. Leaving it open is just wasting a precious resource.

“I’ll DJ,” Clarke announces, plugging the aux cable into her phone and pulling up the playlist of music her dad used to play on car trips. She’s not usually in the mood for Jimmy Buffett or Steely Dan, but on a night like tonight, with the windows rolled down and cool air blasting on her skin, her feet bare and Bellamy’s hand on her knee, it just feels right.

They talk and they laugh and they relish the feeling of being dry for the first time in a few days. At some point Clarke must drift off, because the next thing she knows the car is slowing so Bellamy can turn in to the drive-through lane of a 24-hour fast food establishment.

“Where are we?” She mutters, groggy.

“Virginia,” he says, and this jolts her awake.

“Virginia?” She repeats, mildly confused. They’ve been driving for a good two hours, so they’re probably pretty far into the state.

“Well, right now we’re getting me some coffee so I don’t fall asleep at the wheel.”

“And you couldn’t get coffee in D.C.?”

“I didn’t need it then.”

“Bell.”

“We’re going to the beach. Beaches are better here than Maryland. I thought-- the music-- did you not figure out where we were going?” The more he talks, the more Clarke gapes at him and the more distressed he seems. The speaker crackles and he orders two coffees as she digests the information.

“I have work in the morning,” she points out, conversational.

“So do I,” he shrugs. “We’ll have enough time to-- I don’t know. Sit on the sand, put our feet in the water, watch the sunrise. And then turn around and get back with enough time to shower and change.”

Clarke feels a smile growing on her face.

“This is crazy,” she says, and he grins at her, knowing she’s on board. “And stupid. I’m going to be so useless tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” he grants. “But how much sleep would you have gotten in the sauna formerly known as our apartment?”

“Good point.”

He offers her a styrofoam cup and before she takes it, she kisses him quick and firm.

“I love the plan,” she admits, knowing if he’d told her back in the city, she would’ve found some excuse they shouldn’t do it. “Let’s go be crazy and stupid.”

The smile on his face lights up the whole car.

“Just try and stop me.”

She stays awake for the rest of the journey, speculating with him about why the few cars they pass on the highway are out and about at this hour, and before she knows it they’re pulling into public parking, kicking their shoes off, and making their way over the dunes.

And then it’s-- the beach. The smell of salt in the air, moonlight spilling over the dips and divots in the sand, the rhythmic pattern of waves crashing.

She looks at Bellamy and he looks at her, and then they’re shedding their sweaty clothes and running toward the cool water. It’s a shock to her system and she tries to back out but runs straight into Bellamy’s bare chest.

“I don’t think so,” he chuckles and wraps an arm around her waist, tugging her against his side until her feet are off the ground and half-carrying her into the water. She squeals and struggles halfheartedly, gasping when the water reaches their chests.

Bellamy releases her and goes under, droplets of cool saltwater replacing the droplets of sweat on his brow. She splashes him.

“Is that the thanks I get?” He sputters, wiping his face and splashing back and reaching to tug her closer. She lets him, winding her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.

“My feet don’t touch,” she explains, nibbling on his ear. He groans, one of his hands squeezing the back of her thigh and the other tracing a cool path up her spine. She tries not to shiver.

“Uh-huh.” It’s probably supposed to be sarcastic, but it comes out as more of a moan. “The thing is, this water temperature is gonna be a problem for me.”

“A problem for making out?” She asks, scraping her teeth lightly against his perfect damn jawline. “Because I’m not doing it in the sand and I’m _definitely_ not doing it in Lincoln’s car.”

He shakes his head and presses her closer, bringing her mouth down on his.

“We can make out as much as you want.”

She can’t see his face but she can feel his lips pull back in a smile.

“How generous,” she teases. He shuts her up pretty fast.

When they get too cold she leads him out of the water. They have to pause a few times as they get dressed again, but the ocean breeze makes Clarke’s teeth chatter enough that they don’t get too distracted.

“My hero,” she says when he produces a towel from the mystery backpack. She wraps it around her body and he extracts another for himself, pulling her down to sit between his legs in the sand. His chest is broad and solid behind her, his hands rubbing her forearms to warm her up, his breath hot on her neck. Clarke is pretty content.

She tells him stories about the wholesome family trips she and her parents took when she was a kid, and then about the drunken escapades on the trips she and Wells and Raven took over Spring Break in college. How her mom would unwind over the course of the week until she felt like a real person. How her dad used to insist on fishing, and how they’d order pizza at the last minute when he didn’t catch anything. How Raven accidentally broke a window after too many margaritas, then insisted upon fixing it herself before she even sobered up.

He tells her how Octavia used to be obsessed with the hermit crabs, got one every year when they went to the beach, but could never keep them alive for more than a week. How his mom collected shells and would leave them sitting around in the house for months. How one time he’d gotten stung by a jellyfish and it hurt like hell.

They talk and talk, offering bits of themselves for the other to tuck away, and finally lapse into silence as the black sky fades to a dusty blue, enough to know the sun is coming.

She turns her face to nose at his cheek, inhaling the scent of saltwater and Bellamy.

“Thanks for tonight.”

He doesn’t answer, just kisses her forehead and tightens his snug hold.

She melts a little further into Bellamy’s arms, rests her head on his shoulder. She doesn’t believe in cosmic destiny, doesn’t believe in fate or karma, but she thinks there are lessons to be learned from the universe. They sit and watch the sun emerge over the water and she thinks about the sunrise, so reliable, so certain; something she can always count on, and every day that trust is rewarded with something uniquely beautiful.

And she thinks that maybe she doesn't have to trust everybody. She doesn't have to trust the whole world.

She trusts Bellamy, and that's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [ tumblr ](http://katchyalater.tumblr.com) and be my friend! Or give me ideas, because that's always fun too.


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